Heart of Glass
by H.M.S. Yowling
Summary: *Updated 8 Mar* What does Snape's new suitor actually want? Harry is suspicious... (A mysterious object leads Harry to a better understanding of Severus Snape.) SLASH.
1. Chapter 1

Heart of Glass  
  
Even before he'd realized how the depths of his idiocy, he'd taken... precautions. He'd been left to his own devices at first. In an equipment-filled laboratory, no expense spared. With minions at his beck and call. Yes, a blatant attempt to win his gratitude. And trust. He'd recognized that, of course. Too bad he'd failed to recognize that it was all meant to a flatter an ego alarmingly susceptible to such blandishments. And yet he'd continued to assure himself it was all only part and parcel of what he'd always wanted: to be left alone to brew potions.  
  
But then the requests would come in. "How's your research into igniculus acer going, eh? Oh, and Voldemort needs more unguentum adflictatio." And so Snape would duly brew up vats of unguentum adflictatio, all the while convincing himself it didn't matter to him what was done with it. His arguments with himself about his culpability in the resulting actions were much less convincing, especially when he hadn't ever been quite able to convince himself that he didn't really care.  
  
Because he did. And then the request for a stockpile. "Just in case. Our Lord likes to be prepared, hey what?"  
  
The false bonhomie tempted Snape to use Voldemort's messenger as a research subject. Or simply to brain him with the third-best set of scales.  
  
But the stockpile. It was clear that to escape the prison he'd built for himself -- once he'd recognized that he'd walked into it blindly, though he'd thought that his eyes were wide open -- he'd have to create it. But the quantities he was being asked to prepare, well, surely everything couldn't be used all at once. It was simply an example of Voldemort's long-term planning -- something of which Snape approved, in theory at least. And so he'd connived.  
  
"Glass reacts to magic, as you know," he'd explained, mustering a (not inconsiderable) display of arrogance. "Or devices such as Penseives wouldn't be possible. The problem is that we need a sufficient quantity of spelled glass bottles for storage. And it may to be difficult to procure that amount without raising... suspicions."  
  
Of course, it wouldn't really be impossible to procure the number of phials needed, but he had hoped Voldemort wouldn't know that. And he hadn't. "There is a possible solution, although I hesitate to proffer it." And Snape's solution, however distasteful it may have been, from Voldemort's point of view -- that of relying on Muggles -- was accepted.  
  
Except that Muggle glass wasn't non-reactive as he'd claimed. It leached magic, especially with the quantities of borax they used to make it harden at lower temperatures. And the fact that some idiot had come up with an idea to color-code the bottles was a stroke of luck. Cadmium, selenium, sulfur and the like increased the leaching properties by anywhere from 10 to 35 percent. Wizard glass -- pure glass -- was heated at temperatures of more than to 2600 degrees creating pure fused quartz from the finest grade silica, making the perfect container.  
  
The upside had been that Voldemort had taken his advice, and with any luck the quantities of poisons and truth serums and the like would be ineffective within a few mere years. The downside was that Voldemort had become interested in the properties of glass. And that's when Severus Snape learned what it meant to suffer, though he would only remember that fact intermittently over the next fifteen years.  
  
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Despite the fine English mist that covered the pitch, the surrounding stands were bright with banners and loud with cheers. Harry looked around with satisfaction -- a day at the Quidditch World Cup semi-finals seemed like the perfect reward for surviving his last summer with the Dursleys.   
  
"Program, sir?"   
  
Harry blinked and focused on the pretty blonde who hopefully held out a handful of 250th World Cup commemorative programs. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of knuts and sickles, and bought two -- one for him and one for Ron. Ron and Hermione could share.   
  
Tucking them under his arm, he smiled again at the girl and turned away, never noticing that she'd begun to silently count down from 60 as he began the long climb up to the stands where the Weasleys, and Hermione, waited.  
  
Perhaps the girl counted slowly, or perhaps the Quidditch program portkey was timed a little fast, but she'd only reached seven when Harry Potter raised his foot to bring it down on a step that was precisely 93 from the left turn that would have taken him into the box where his friends waited. It was unfortunate that Fred and George had set off one of their patented gags, causing a mild ruckus that included 20 of the people surrounding them. None of them noticed when Harry Potter blinked out of sight.  
  
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Portkeys were designed to bring people very quickly from point A to point B -- so quickly that there was little time for the holder of the portkey to cast a spell to interfere with its workings. But previous experiences with being whisked away to a destination he'd have preferred not to visit at all had convinced Harry that it was worth attempting the impossible in the interest of survival. And since the desire to stay alive is a powerful drive in all living things -- not to mention some things that can't be properly called alive -- his previous practice with portkeys had led him to be able to avoid his final destination by, at most 1 foot, 3 ¼ inches.   
  
Desperation leant weight to his efforts, however, and so he arrived, not dramatically at the foot of the Dark Lord's throne in an appropriately prostrate position as intended, but in a locked storeroom approximately 50 feet behind it. He did not manage to land on his feet, and found himself face down in a pile of old Death Eater robes. The resulting cloud of dust that billowed up meant that he had to forcefully restrain from sneezes by non-magical means. He didn't know where he was (although he had a good idea of who he was in proximity to, if not his own actual geographic location), and he had no idea whether using magic would call down Death Eaters or other assorted monsters on his head. He decided to stay still and quiet. Quiet as a mouse. Quieter even than that, if he possibly could.  
  
The storeroom was filled with an amazing array of objects both ordinary and frightening. Some frighteningly laughable, such as the discovery that the disused Death Eater costumes showed that Voldemort, once upon a time, had, perhaps, listened to the fashion advice of whoever had designed the costumes for Flash Gordon. Other things were gruesome -- the limbs of various Death Eaters who likely had failed their Lord in some way. Perhaps Voldemort was saving them up to build a new many-armed model out of spare parts.  
  
And then there were the bottles. Bottles and bottles of potions marked with skulls and crossbones -- and if he was too stupid to pay attention to that warning, there was the helpful label "Poison!" Harry felt sure he recognized the spiky handwriting.   
  
But the one thing that fascinated him was the crystal ball. It wasn't large -- more the size of a cricket ball -- and it wasn't clear, like Trelawney's. No, it was a monstrosity, miniature though it was. Dark, ugly, misshapen, with a crack at its heart. But also, weirdly familiar. And weirdly sad. Harry stood and stared at it for a while. Then he sat on the floor and read his Quidditch program, occasionally gnashing his teeth over missing the match.  
  
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In Voldemort's throne room, the Death Eaters had begun to shuffle their feet nervously. Death Eater Crabbe had Apparated from the Quidditch match as soon as the program had been placed in Potter's hands. They'd all counted to themselves, but it was clear by the time that even the slowest of them had counted backward from 60, that Potter was not going to arrive. And now was the moment that they all dreaded -- which one of them was going to take the blame for this fuck-up?  
  
The tap-tap of Voldemort's fingernails against his throne was nerve-wracking. As was the moment when he suddenly stood and dismissed them.  
  
Retribution would come -- it would just come when the expectation of it grew too great to bear. And it would hurt twice as much.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Back at the Quidditch match, Fred and George had managed to keep from being expelled from the stadium by the skin of their teeth. Arthur Weasleys looked torn between humiliation and righteous anger -- so much so that Fred and George realized they might want to watch the game from elsewhere and leave their family in peace.  
  
But once the remaining party sat down, it wasn't until Ginny asked forlornly "Where's Harry?" that panic began to set in.  
  
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Harry had decided to read one of the two Quidditch program, using the tip of his wand to turn the pages. The commemorative program had a new feature -- as the game began, the stats slowly filled themselves in. And the pictures of each player occasionally updated to show a particularly daring play from that day's match. Not as good as being there, but then, not as bad as being killed by Voldemort either.   
  
Idly, he checked the program, which also gave the game-time elapsed on the upper right-hand corner of each page. The game had started well over fifteen minutes ago -- surely the Weasleys must have figured out by now that he was missing. He wavered between trying to escape from the locked storeroom on his own, and hoping that the portkey on his wrist would suddenly work. Dumbledore had given it to him the year before, saying that if he was ever in trouble, he'd be able to use it to get back to Hogwarts simply by taking it off and putting it on again, upside down. Which he'd done repeatedly, but nothing had happened. So it probably meant that wherever he was was spelled against people using portkeys -- not a stupid move for Voldemort to make, unfortunately.  
  
His other hope was that the portkey was also a homing device, and that it could be used to find Harry in the near future. So far it seemed he was safe enough, but he was hungry. And thirsty. And there was nothing in the storeroom that looked remotely like anything to eat or drink -- or, at least, nothing that wouldn't cause a painful death shortly thereafter.  
  
With a sigh, Harry burrowed into the pile of Death Eater cloaks. They were loathsome, yes, and dusty, but he was cold. And, if he were underneath them, anyone coming to check on the storeroom wouldn't see him. He put his own cloak over his head, which kept out the worst of the dust, and tried to sleep. And then, for reasons he didn't quite understand, he emerged from the pile of cloaks, got the weird crystal ball from the shelf, and burrowed back in, tucking it against his chest while he slept.  
  
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It was a good half hour after Harry's disappearance before panic subsided and determination set in. Not to mention the ability to calmly notify Dumbledore and assemble trusted allies. The locator device functioned magnificently -- unfortunately, there was now the problem of getting everyone to the Outer Hebrides without tipping Voldemort off. All in all, ten hours had passed before assorted Hogwarts' faculty members, Aurors, and Arthur Weasleys's trusted associates from the ministry of magic stormed Voldemort's castle.   
  
Voldemort, rather than staying to fight, abandoned his followers to rescue what they could of secret plans and valuable supplies. One by one, however, the Death Eaters, too, Apparated away, leaving Harry's rescuers the field -- one draughty castle that, from a distance looked like nothing so much as a rockfall. Fearfully they trooped behind Dumbledore as he homed in on Harry's signal. The door opened and there was a collective sigh of dismay. Harry was not to be seen.  
  
Finally Arthur Weasleys spoke. "They would have stayed and fought if they'd killed him. Maybe..." And with that a sleepy Harry Potter rose from the Death Eaters robes to find himself surrounded by his rescuers looking very surprised as they sheepishly put away the wands that, mere seconds before, had been pointed at his head.   
  
Harry looked apologetically at Dumbledore, caught Snape's eye and blushed at the utter disdain displayed there.  
  
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Harry sat on the stone wall on which he'd been ordered to sit while the rest of the company searched the castle from top-to-bottom. And so he sat, bored, idly fingering the glass ball he'd tucked into robes. It was oddly comforting in its weight and heft, and despite the saner part of his brain insisting that anything found in Voldemort's storeroom wasn't likely to be something he should hang onto, he found himself clutching it defiantly. And when Mr. Weasleys or Dumbedore or one of the Aurors came to check up on him -- "All okay, Harry?" -- he would tuck it away in his cloak protectively. And then it was back to the boredom. Until....  
  
An explosion ripped out one of the walls of the castle, sending shards of rock and bits of paper flying through the air. The paper rustled and floated on the air, pushed languidly this way and that by the resulting air currents.   
  
There was a brief moments of silence after the explosion rocked the island, seemingly to its foundations, and then the air was filled with shouts and exclamations as everyone ran toward the smoking remains of what had been the storeroom. A firm Dumbledore waved everyone away.  
  
"We set off a trap for the unwary, alas. We can only be grateful that we didn't stumble upon it earlier."  
  
Everyone in the party had been well-clear of the area, apparently, since Dumbledore showed little inclination for a head count. It was Arthur Weasleys who quickly tallied everyone up, showing concern that the party's youngest member, a junior Auror by the name of Carter, was safe and sound.  
  
Harry's eyes were drawn to Snape, who looked -- well, he looked the same as always, disdainful of everything and everyone around him. To Harry's eyes, however, there seemed to be an added tension. Guilt? Fear? His crimes uncovered in the presence of those who had suffered, or who knew of those who had suffered because of his former allegiance to Voldemort?  
  
He caught Snape's glance again, but this time it was Snape who looked away first.  
  
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Dinner was an alarming meal. Cornelius Fudge had found out about the attempt on Harry and had arrived at Hogwarts reeking of concern -- of a sort.  
  
"We don't want these rumors about Voldemort's return leaking out," he repeated for what had to be the 19th time.   
  
No one bothered to reply. Everyone concentrated resolutely on eating their food, although Snape had helped himself to only minuscule portions and had quickly and neatly disposed of them within ten minutes of the meal beginning. Now he simply turned his butter knife over and over in his hand, as if wishing it were a somewhat sharper implement. Harry sympathized.  
  
"Panic. Would cause panic. I know you don't agree with me, Weasleys, but I've had vast experience with these things, and the last thing we want is panic among the general populace." Fudge nodded to himself sagely.  
  
Dumbledore calmly sipped his wine while Arthur Weasleys chewed his mouthful of peas with the attention that jugglers usually reserve for those times when they're juggling flaming chainsaws while tightrope-walking over a pit of crocodiles.  
  
"After all, it's clear that this was really about *former* Death Eaters attempting to sow fear -- while destroying evidence of their previous association with You-Know-Who."  
  
Mr. Weasleys's eyes bulged briefly at the sheer illogic, but Harry couldn't help notice the quick glance he cast at Snape even as Fudge sent a spiteful glance in that same direction.  
  
"The explosion. You can't tell me that that wasn't suspicious! Carter tells me it was filled with phials of what looked to be poison." Fudge turned a pointed gaze in Dumbledore's direction while the hapless Carter suddenly seemed to realize that loose lips sank ships and perhaps careers as well.  
  
Dumbledore seemed impelled to speak. "A booby-trap," he said firmly. "For the unwary."  
  
"And yet Harry Potter was trapped in there for... how long?... Without anything going amiss?" Fudge smiled unpleasantly. "Just what are you trying to hide, Headmaster?"  
  
"Why nothing, Minister Fudge. I'm afraid that you're right. Some people do have overactive imaginations."  
  
The conversation went around in circles after that, and Harry tried to figure out, from what was *not* being said, what was going on.  
  
It had seemed clear -- surely there was now enough proof of Voldemort's return to justify a general warning to the wizard population. The documents, the stores, the devices... Except the storeroom Harry had been had exploded -- after Harry had left it and Dumbledore had deemed it unsafe for any of his rescuers to enter. Only a few had gotten a glimpse into the gloomy room, and one of them had been Snape. Who had promptly turned white, whirled on his heel, and quickly walked away.  
  
The storeroom had been destroyed, Harry could only surmise, to cover up Snape's part in creating that huge stockpile to begin with.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's note:  
  
Reuploaded chapter 7 Oct, to fix -- I hope -- formatting problems.  
  
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Heart of Glass - 2  
  
It was a sight that Hogwarts had never before seen -- a seething Harry Potter. "That's not the point -- I understand why it happened. The explosion you set off somehow destroyed them, too."  
  
Dumbledore sighed. "So we think. We're only guessing, but we think that..."  
  
"It had something to do with you blowing up the storeroom so no one would find the potions that Snape had brewed for Voldemort," Harry said. He met Dumbledore's gaze evenly. "I was in there quite a while. I recognized his handwriting, you know."  
  
Dumbledore returned the gaze somberly. The only sound was the rustle of Fawke's feathers as he preened.  
  
Harry threw himself into a wing chair and stared out the window, unsure of what to say -- what to demand.   
  
The beginning of term had been full of tension and fear as the news spread that several Death Eaters had died, screaming to the end, on the day that Harry had been kidnapped. At the start of term Harry learned, to his dismay, that word raced through the wizarding community that harming Harry was hazardous to one's health. Even the members of his own house -- especially the newest ones -- were regarding him with awe-tinged fear.  
  
What made it worse was that Harry hadn't done it. Whatever had caused several of Voldemort's supporters to die violent, painful deaths, it wasn't him. And no one had bothered to tell him. He glared out the window at the wind-tossed branches waving in the stiff fall breeze. The sun glinted off the lake and a group of first years looked to be enjoying their flying lessons, their robes whipping around them, making them look like giant leaves being blown across the sky.  
  
"You mustn't think yourself responsible." Dumbledore said. "The actions were mine and mine alone."'  
  
"But I *don't* think myself responsible. I didn't ask to be kidnapped, and I know lucky I was to escape. What I don't understand is why you never *told* me. Why you let me find out..." Harry paused, remembering.   
  
The first night dinner had been awful, with an oddly quiet Slytherin table; its occupants defiantly glaring back at the furtive glances cast their way. Vincent Crabbe -- whose father had been among those who had exploded -- looked as if he'd shrunk two sizes, while Goyle was making the most of his mass and hovering near his friend protectively. Draco was quiet; watchful. The newest Slytherins were huddled near Snape, who looked poised to extend his cape, batlike, around their shoulders.  
  
And whispers had echoed around him. "They said they all just screamed. Screamed as if their whole body had been lit on fire and then just... died. Or blew up."  
  
Dumbledore's voice brought him back to the present. "We've done some investigating since then and it seems likely that, to ensure loyalty, Voldemort tied his minion's lives to objects that were then destroyed."  
  
"And so your efforts to protect Snape, essentially, killed them," Harry finished flatly. The expression on Dumbledore's face took on a forbidding aspect. "You were trying to destroy the potions he'd brewed for Voldemort before the Ministry found them, weren't you?"  
  
"Harry, there are things you don't understand, things that..."  
  
"You won't tell me."  
  
"I'm sorry, Harry."  
  
"That's all right, sir." Harry said sarcastically. "I'm sure I'll find some things not to tell you about, too."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Harry returned to Griffindor, avoiding the common room where Ron and Hermione sat together studying, their knees touching. Instead he quietly went up to his rooms and retrieved the object he'd guiltily been keeping a secret from everyone ever since the day he was kidnapped. Holding the crystal to his chest, he crawled into bed and fell into an exhausted sleep.  
  
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Harry wrenched violently away from the hand clamped down on his shoulder. He thrust himself up to find himself sitting in the middle of his bed,the center of wide-eyed concern for the fifth night that week. His dreams had been dreadful; a kaleidoscope of images that only served to show him how lucky, all-in-all, he had been in his encounters with Voldemort.  
  
"You've got to see Pomfrey, Harry," Ron insisted. His friend grinned halfheartedly. "No need for us all to suffer, right?" He nudged Harry with his elbow.  
  
Harry tried to smile back. "Friends share, right?" But he met Ron's eyes seriously and gave his friend the reassurance he'd been seeking ever since the first time he'd scared his roommates awake in the early hours of the morning: "I'm not dreaming about what happened to me over the summer. Your father helped rescue me -- it really wasn't all that bad."  
  
"But something's going on. Even after..."  
  
"Cedric." Harry nodded shortly.   
  
"It wasn't this bad," Ron continued. "Maybe it's, dunno, cumulative. Or maybe..." Ron's eyes flickered up to rest on Harry's scar. Harry's hand rose unconsciously to cover it.  
  
"It's nothing to do with Voldemort. At least... It's nothing that he's doing to me. My scar hasn't been hurting."  
  
"Well, that's a relief. But still. Promise me you'll see Pomfrey, at least?"  
  
Harry nodded. "All right."  
  
But the potion Pomfrey gave him only lent distance to the dreams. The terror abated, but the horrors that unfolded before his eyes did not. And even then, it was weeks before he realized he wasn't playing the starring role.  
  
It wasn't until midway through term that he finally figured it out.  
  
He'd taken to sneaking back to his room after lunch when most of the other seventh years took the opportunity to spend their time outdoors, in the section of the garden reserved for them. Initially Ron had followed him, still anxious about the nightmares that continued unabated. But Harry had convinced his friend that he was simply going for a nap -- a nap as much meant to enable him to stay awake during Divinations as to compensate for the sleep he'd lost during the night.  
  
But what he actually did was carefully unwrap the crystal from the protective covering he'd devised for it and hold it against his chest as he stared vacantly up at the ceiling. Sometimes it felt as if the crystal was confiding him; sometimes as if he was getting a preview of nightmares to come. And sometimes it felt as if it was just another weary soul grateful for anything that would give it the strength to get it through the rest of the day.  
  
The crystal also reminded Harry how to play a part, to keep his head up and act as if nothing was bothering him even as the news of what was happening became more and more grim. He sat at the Order of Phoenix meetings and watched the faces of Dumbledore's trusted inner circle and found the fortitude not to react as Voldemort advanced on them -- sometimes nibbling away at their defenses, and other times unleashing the sort of destruction that seemed to inspire Fudge to new heights in his attempts to convince a more and more unbelieving public that Voldemort was not a threat.  
  
Harry stroked the ball again, yawned, and realized that, again, time had passed much more quickly than he had thought. Sitting up, he began the ritual had begun the first time he realized that he'd likely break the... whatever-it-was... if he carried it in his robes while he played Quidditch. He'd tried to bring it with him during the day, but became too afraid that Hermione's eagle eyes would notice the discernible lump he carried underneath his robes.   
  
Initially Harry had set it in his trunk, in a nest of old clothes. But somehow leaving it lying in Dudley's hated cast-off seemed wrong. So he'd stolen a box from a care package sent to Ron by his mother and wadded tissue paper. Unearthing an empty box from his trunk, he wadded the paper under, around, and over it, then carefully placed the lid.   
  
From then on, it became a matter of getting different, softer, stronger protection as cushioning . He'd sacrificed a pillow for the feathers within, and that had given him another idea. Owl feathers? There were plenty in the owlery -- he could cast a cleansing spell on them. From there it went to collecting down, and from collecting owl down to casting speculative looks at Fawkes.   
  
That was when he thought he'd finally gone too far. For the brilliance of the phoenix feathers made the crystal seem dark and unhealthy, as if the crystal was shrinking in on itself.  
  
Harry picked up the crystal and examined it and realized it wasn't his imagination -- it *was* smaller. And then, with clarity that sent Harry tumbling to the floor he had a vision of a werewolf stalking him, poised to spring, and then a hand yanking him back and throwing him to the grass. He looked up into the concerned eyes of... his father...   
  
Harry sat up, gasping, and looked wildly around the room. He'd been stalked by werewolves in his dreams before, but this clarity showed that they were only faint echoes of a true terror. And now Harry knew to whom that terror truly belonged.  
  
He stared at the crystal in dismay.  
  
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Thanks to all who reviewed!  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Author's note:  
  
Just a reminder that this is very much a WIP and so plot points that don't make sense will be ironed out once I figure out where this story is actually going. Feel free to point out inconsistencies, or plot points that need clarification.   
  
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Heart of Glass - 3  
  
Harry idly diced shrivelfig into ever-smaller pieces as he waited for his potion to turn from green to puce. Snape stalked about the classroom, peering into cauldrons and criticizing the consistency of the contents within. Harry huddled into his robes. Ever since he'd discovered he'd discovered that the crystal was somehow connected to Snape, he couldn't look the man in the eye. But when Snape wasn't looking his way, he couldn't help noticing... Harry shook his head and diced some more, this time at a forty-five degree angle. The pieces, had he known it, were perfectly prepared -- for most other potions than the one Snape had set as a sample practical.  
  
"Mr. Potter."  
  
Harry started at Snape's voice and looked up to see the potions master looming over him.  
  
"How is it that the rest of the class has moved on to step seven and you're still at step three?" Snape took a pinch of shrivelfig between his fingers and examined it minutely.  
  
"I'd almost be impressed with your precision if weren't completely beside the point." Snape glared down at Harry and Harry tensed. "Try again." And Snape moved on. Harry waited for the potions master to whirl back and add one of his trademarked cutting remarks, but he seemed to be more entertained by the sight of Neville Longbottom, whose potion had turned his ears into those of a basset hound. Snape raised an eyebrow. "I'm not certain whether to give points for amusement value, or to deduct them for sheer incompetency. At least you didn't blow anything up." Snape used his wand to lift one of Neville's floppy ears.  
  
"Far be it for me to disappoint your housemates," he finally said after a silent examination that left Neville blushing beet red. "Ten points from Griffindor. Come to the front of the classroom, I have something that should cure your affliction -- by tomorrow afternoon, at least."  
  
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"Don't worry about it, Neville," Ron said, slapping the other boy on the back. "If you can remember how you pulled it off, I'm sure the twins will buy the formula. Maybe even let you share in the profits."  
  
Neville brightened at that.  
  
"And I have a cap you can wear," Harry added. It was an old, gray cricket cap of Dudley's and was far too enormous for his head, but Neville might be able to shove the ears up into it or something.  
  
The four Griffindors walked to their house and up to the boys' rooms. Harry dug around his trunk and emerged triumphantly with the cap. He tossed it to Neville. "Here you go."  
  
Neville snatched it up with a grateful thanks.  
  
"Ready for lunch, then," Hermione asked from the doorway. Neville looked worried, but trailed gamely behind the other three as they left.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After lunch, Harry escaped to the gardens and sat cross-legged with the crystal held between his palms. Maybe he could tap into it while he was awake. The crystal was definitely smaller, lighter. Harry hoped that he wasn't doing anything to harm Snape, but Snape, if anything, looked better. He stood straighter, looked less tired. The deep-worn lines around his mouth seem to have smoothed out. Harry blushed, remembering Snape having caught him staring when Harry should have been at work on a pop quiz.  
  
He shook the thought away and held the crystal to his chest, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He could hear the sound of a breeze in the trees. He concentrated harder, but... nothing. He opened his eyes and stared into the ball. "Well, what is it? Do you only want to give me nightmares. Snape has no problem scaring me while I'm awake, you know."  
  
The crystal glowed sullenly, and Harry rubbed his palm across it, his usual caressing gesture. "Come on," he coaxed. "Show me."  
  
A werewolf loomed up before Harry and Harry nearly dropped the crystal in his fright. This time the events unfolded slowly, as if attempting to beat the terror of the moment deep into his heart and mind. Paralyzing fear, helplessness, hopelessness, a sense of his own stupidity, inadequacy, and oh, god, he was going to die, here, now and those Griffindors were going to get away with it, damn them, they hated him, and that was just fine he hated them, too. Hated them, hated them, hate, hate, hate.... And then the nightmare melted away and Harry stared down at the crystal in dismay. The emotions drained out of him, leaving him feeling sick. No wonder Snape couldn't bear the sight of him, of Remus, of Sirius...  
  
Shaken, he stood and paced for a moment. Then, with determination, he walked to the lake and stood there, hefting the crystal in one hand. He should get rid of it. At the bottom of the lake it would be safe, relatively, and no one would know he'd ever had it. But, reflexively, the other hand came up to caress the crystal gently.  
  
"All right. Let's try that one more time." Harry stalwartly returned to the gardens, settled himself on the grounds once more, and tried to get the crystal to give up its secrets.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Harry rose weakly to his feet and staggered. He'd managed to get the crystal to show him something, but it kept showing the same thing, over and over, as if to pound it into Harry's head. But with a deep breath, Harry would dive back in again, until, finally, it seemed as if the crystal gave up the memory with a sigh. And then it was on to the next one.  
  
His dreams for the rest of the week were composed of images from all the visions he'd seen, but spliced together as if in an attempt to create new horrors for Harry to experience. But gradually, he began to realize that the crystal could only show him a limited amount of painful things. And that slowly, with time, the images lost their power and became less and less vivid -- losing color and power and strength.  
  
"Harry," he vaguely heard Hermione say. "Harry, maybe *you* should drink the cognatio percuro we brewed."  
  
Harry looked at Hermione, who was toying with the glass bottle into which she'd poured her potion at class's end.  
  
"Hmm. Maybe I should at that," he said vaguely, not quite sure what he was agreeing to.  
  
"Honestly, Harry. What's wrong with you?"  
  
"Tired."  
  
"Then you should be brewing pepper-up potions, rather than that useless thing we brewed in class today. Took three full classes to do it. What's wrong with the stuff that Pomfrey hands out? You can even buy it over the counter."  
  
"This potion is hardly *useless*, Hermione exclaimed. "If properly stored, it will keep for *centuries*. And I bought a bottle made from Grade A Extra Pure Wizard's Glass in Hogsmead last week."  
  
Ron held up his own bottle. "Why not just use the ones that Snape has for us? You don't need to go buying bottles."  
  
Hermione sniffed. "That's not true. A bottle like that will only preserve the efficacy of a potion for seven years. After that..."  
  
"Glass is glass." Ron shrugged. Harry, however, took a longer and harder look at the bottle in Hermione's hand.  
  
"No. It's not," she said. "And so when your potion is black sludge lining the bottom of the bottle, I'll be able to leave my potion to my ancestors."  
  
"Hermione, why would anyone want your X potion?" Ron asked.  
  
"Because its healing powers are greatest when it's brewed by a loved one or relative. Why do you think we had to put fingernail clippings in?"  
  
"Because Snape has a gross sense of humor?"  
  
"You're an idiot, Ron," Hermione said affectionately. "Come on. Transfiguration next." She looked at Harry. "You going to be awake enough for this?"  
  
Harry nodded, lips pursed. "I think so. I feel much more awake already."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Transfiguration turned out to be a review of last week, and Harry had had no problem turning his chair into a hatstand, then into a rather confused looking egret and back again, so he just sat back in his chair and thought about what Hermione had said. After class, instead of following Ron to the Griffindor common room for a game of chess, he instead trailed Hermione to the library. He waited until she'd arranged her books, quill, scroll, and Post-It notes carefully on a study table before asking, "So, uh, Hermione. What you said about glass..."  
  
Hermione paused as she retrieved her Arithmancy calculator from her bookbag. "It's *fascinating*, Harry. Merlin himself tried to create glass wands -- they failed, of course -- but glass has *amazing* properties."  
  
"Like..." Harry let the word trail off and looked at Hermione expectantly. Hermione could always be counted on for an impromptu lecture and she didn't fail him.   
  
"Well, glass can conduct magic -- it conducts electricity really well, too, which is why Muggles make tele-optic fiber out of it. But it can only conductor of magic at low, steady levels. It's why Merlin's wands didn't work -- a powerful spell will cause them to explode. I've been thinking it might be able to make a wand attachment, you see. Something that could store magic for extra power when you need it -- like an emergency back-up battery."  
  
"Huh," Harry said intelligently. "So, the storing part."  
  
"Oh, yes. The purer the glass, the better it's able to store magic. Low quality glass does the opposite. The more impure it is, the more likely it is to leach magic away. That's why wizards don't use Muggle glass except for potions that need to be used quickly. Some potions have a short shelf life and can cause harm if taken after the expiration date. By storing them in Muggle glass, they're rendered harmless by the time the expiration date rolls around."  
  
"How do you *know* all this?" Harry asked curiously.  
  
"Well, I had this bottle from home and I wanted to use it to store my percuro cognatio potion. It was a really pretty blue color and, well..." Hermione blushed slightly. "Anyway, I showed the bottle to Professor Snape because I didn't know whether I'd need to spell it clean or something. And he told me that if I stored my potion in it, it wouldn't last even half as long as it would stored in the bottles he keeps for the class."  
  
Harry turned this piece of information over in his mind. "It was blue?"  
  
"Uh-huh. The chemicals Muggles use to color glass -- and do other things too -- make the glass impure and antithetical to magic."  
  
"So the bottles Snape has are good for seven years and in the blue bottle, your potion have lasted for just over three." The hundreds of bottles marked "Poison" swam before his eyes. He smiled broadly at Hermione. "That's... that's *brilliant*," he said. Hermione looked puzzled. "No, I... I can't explain." Something else teased at the corners of Harry's brain. "Hey, Hermione... what do you know about Penseives?"  
  
~~~~  
  
/block  
Thanks again to all who reviewed. By the way, my Latin is nonexistent, so if you can think of better names that what I'm coming up (via an English-to-Latin online dictionary), feel free to let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the long delay. I don't know that I'll get another chapter up before the Christmas holidays.  
  
Thanks again to all who reviewed.  
  
Glass - Part 4  
  
~~~~~~~~  
  
Harry woke from another nightmare, his forehead throbbing. It was the first time the two had happened simultaneously. The air in his room was cool, but felt as if his lungs were still full of air that was hot and heavy, noxious with fumes. He coughed and sat up, his lungs aching.  
  
"Nox," he called, and waved his hand. The room looked normal, normal except for...  
  
The globe. It looked as if it was filmed over with a fine gray slime. Harry got out of bed and approached it, reached a hand toward it cautiously.  
  
The air around it throbbed. Harry bit his lip. He'd let this go on too long and now there was some sort of trouble and he didn't know what to do.  
  
Except that he did. Turning he grabbed Ron's shoulder. "Ron. Ron, get Dumbledore. Send him to Snape's dungeons." Then, wand in hand, he dashed out the door, and pelted for the dungeons.  
  
Once outside Snape's door he caught himself on the verge of hesitating, convinced he was about to make an utter fool of himself and spend the rest of the year cleaning cauldrons as a result. But a mist was seeping out from under the door. Quickly Harry cast an air purification bubble around himself, then blasted the door down with one well-placed spell.  
  
The air was worse than it had been in his dream. It dragged at his skin, like the damp scales of some creature better left unmet. Despite the air-purifying charm, his lungs felt tight, as if they couldn't -- or were refusing out self-preservation -- draw the substance all the way in.  
  
Harry fought his way further in, wishing he'd taken the time to place a cleaning charm on his glasses. They were filming over, and it was difficult to see. He remembered, then, to activate his bracelet, hoping it would set off alarms that would bring Dumbledore to the scene. Then he pushed his way forward, searching for Snape in vain until, with a thud, he fell over the man's body.  
  
Harry began dragging Snape back toward the door, then out into the hallway where the fumes had settled on the ground malignantly. They seemed to follow the pair down the hall, reaching out tendrils towards Snape's mouth and nose. Harry took a few precious seconds to create a fan charm that made little headway on blowing the fumes back the way they had come. His own lungs felt tighter, and tighter, his head light from the lack of oxygen.  
  
Behind him, two strong hands grasped his shoulders. A white-faced Dumbledore cried out, "Harry -- what?" but then forsook questions in favor of levitating Snape and speeding him toward the Infirmary.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Harry awoke, feeling remarkably better. Madame Pomfrey had made him drink several potions the night previously, each nastier than the last. One, he was sure, was to send him firmly to sleep thereby keeping out from underfoot. Snape's usual pallor was tinged greenish-gray. It had looked very... wrong.  
  
But apparently Snape was awake, and feeling much better, by the sound of his acid tones.  
  
"I tell you, Headmaster, I don't *know*." Snape's frustrated voice carried out into the infirmary room in which Harry was ensconced. To Harry's surprise, the headmaster bellowed back.  
  
"It was a brilliant plan, Snape. Simple, brilliant, and damn near deadly. He nearly got you and Harry both in one fell blow."  
  
"Is it my fault that the boy is so foolish as to go rushing in where Aurors fear to tread?" Snape's voice was waspish and Harry winced again.  
  
"That's not the point. The point is..."  
  
"The point is that a trap was set for me on school grounds and you want to know who set it. Believe me, I understand that much."  
  
"For your protection."  
  
"And that of your precious... students."  
  
Harry flinched.   
  
"Severus..."  
  
"I beg your pardon, Headmaster. I withdraw the implication."  
  
There was silence for a moment.   
  
"Severus, you do realize that a student..."  
  
"I don't wish to discuss this any further. I'm quite tired."  
  
"We've examined your rooms. Wormwood infused with dragon's blood and aconite was placed in your fireplace. Probably spelled against burning until the wee hours of the morning, after you'd fallen asleep. Someone had to put it there, Severus. Someone you trust."  
  
Harry's stomach clenched, and he waited for Snape to speak. The usual low tones sounded dead when he finally did.  
  
"As I mentioned, Headmaster, I am very tired. If you would excuse me?"   
  
Harry quickly shut his eyes as he heard heavy footsteps leaving Snape's chamber. The steps continued toward the infirmary ward where he lay, paused, then continued.   
  
Harry opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Gratefully Harry sank into a chair in the Griffindor common room. He'd practically stood on his head to convince Pomfrey that he was okay and wouldn't collapse on the way back to his room.  
  
"So, what happened last night?" Ron asked curiously. Around the room, heads turned to look, then ostentatiously looked away as if uninterested.  
  
"It's a long story," Harry said tiredly.  
  
"Oh." Ron flipped open his History of Magic textbook and began flipping through it.  
  
"When Hermione gets back from wherever she is, I'll tell you both. No sense trying to explain myself twice."  
  
"You sure?" Ron grinned. "You tell me now and I can help you anticipate all Hermione's questions."  
  
"All of them?" Harry and Ron shared a long look, then began laughing.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"You say from a dream about Snape dying and your scar hurt?"  
  
"Yes." Harry met Hermione's gaze steadily.  
  
"Oh. And Dumbledore said that the wormwood had been hidden in his fireplace."  
  
"By someone whom Snape trusted." Hermione nodded. "Which means a Slytherin."  
  
"Or a staff member. Or a house elf. They can get anywhere," Ron added. "But that's unlikely. Had to be a Slytherin. Probably Draco. He's Snape's little pet."  
  
Harry's jaw clenched.   
  
"There's all of Slytherin to choose from. And don't forget that Snape has an elective class that three Ravenclaws take part in. They come and go from Snape's workroom quite frequently." Hermione paused. "My question is, why now? I mean, what, after all this time, tipped Voldemort off?"  
  
Harry shifted uncomfortably under Hermione's gaze.  
  
"What about those Death Eaters that exploded last summer?" Ron cast an apologetic glance at Harry. "My dad said that Voldemort had to regroup after that. Maybe he just got paranoid. Snape's been working at Hogwart's for years. I'm sure if he really wanted to kill Harry, he probably would have managed it by now. Voldemort probably just figured that out."  
  
"Maybe." Hermione looked unconvinced. "What do you think, Harry?"  
  
"I don't know Hermione." Harry tried to sound bewildered. "It could be what Ron said. Or maybe some other Death Eater figured it out. Or had to put the blame on someone for something that went wrong and blamed Snape. It could be anything."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
But it wasn't anything. It was the crystal. Voldemort had to have been using it to control Snape, or punish him. And Voldemort would have been angry because Death Eaters had died, and realized that the Snape-crystal was gone.  
  
And found someone willing to execute his plan inside Hogwarts-found someone willing to execute Snape.  
  
Meanwhile Dumbledore had lost his best spy, Snape had lost his life and was facing the fact that someone he trusted had tried to kill him. Harry rolled the crystal in his palms meditatively and tried to think what to do.  
  
He couldn't exactly walk up to Snape and tell him. What would the man say? Probably spit in his face. It would look as if... What? That Harry had wanted to control him? To have a hold over him if Snape proved a traitor after all. Or that Harry was a voyeur, a pervert, that he'd been getting his own back for all the humiliations he'd suffered at the Potions Master's hands by prying into the man's affairs, reveling at the amount of pain the Potions Master had suffered during his life.  
  
Harry sighed and tucked the crystal away in his cloak, rose, and headed to the Great Hall for dinner.  
  
_______________________  
  
Thanks for reading. 


	5. Chapter 5

Hi - Sorry for the long delay. Hope this makes up for it.  
  
As always, comments appreciated, especially thoughts about where this story is/should be going (plotwise). Getting Harry and Snape together is, of course, on the agenda.  
  
__________________________________  
  
Heart of Glass - 6  
  
--||--  
  
Harry looked up as Ron walked into the room, slammed a few drawers open and closed again, then threw himself down on his bed.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
Ron shrugged.  
  
Harry went back to reading his book. Ron sighed loudly.  
  
Harry let his Arithmancy text fall to his chest. "*What*, Ron?"  
  
Ron opened his mouth to deny anything was wrong but reconsidered at the expression on Harry's face. "It's Hermione," he grumbled.  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows.  
  
"She keeps disappearing. I think she's secretly meeting with someone." Ron frowned at the ceiling. "It's bad enough that she's studies all the time, now she has to go disappearing and..."  
  
"Ron, why not just tell her you like her and be done with it. It's only been seven years, after all."  
  
Ron frowned as he sat on the edge of his bed. "I don't see what feelings have to do with it. It's just that-"  
  
"You like it better when we're keeping secrets from her, not the other way 'round," Harry said drily.  
  
Ron shrugged. "Maybe. But still."  
  
"Still what?"  
  
Ron flopped backwards. "Ginny said that she's been studying with Levi Krassner in Ravenclaw."  
  
"Right. Nothing to do with feelings, Ron." Harry rolled his eyes.  
  
Ron tossed a pillow at Harry's head. Harry grabbed it and used it to prop himself up and, ignoring Ron, went back to studying for his Arithmancy exam.  
  
--||--  
  
Two days later, Hermione walked into the common room, head held high.  
  
Harry gaped. "Hermione?"  
  
Hermione looked down her nose at him. "It will wear off." The other in the room Griffindors exchanged glances, but said nothing.  
  
"Will it?" Harry stared in amazement at her hair. It stood on end, and tiny sparks jumped from strand to strand, undulating gently as a result. "Are you all right?"  
  
"Fine. It was just - I tried something and, well.... It went wrong. I'll be fine."  
  
Harry nodded uncertainly, still gazing raptly. "Um, an experiment doing *what*, exactly?"  
  
Hermione shrugged. "Just some extra credit." She looked at Harry and relented. "Look, I can't tell you. But if you figure it out on your own." She grinned. "I know. Let's go to dinner."  
  
Harry walked into the hall and looked around. Hermione wasn't going to tell him, but there must be some connection between 'figuring it out' and 'going to dinner. He stared at the occupants of every table, but everyone's hair seemed normal. Well, not that he'd noticed hair much before, but nothing out of the ordinary. And no one was wearing a hat as a disguise, so far as he could see. He glanced at Hermione, but she just smiled primly and ate her dinner, loftily ignoring the stares of those around her.  
  
Harry looked around again, wondering what-*who*-he'd missed. And so he looked where he hadn't before. He looked at the teacher's table. And suddenly he knew. He knew that if he hadn't been so determined to avoid noticing Snape he would have noticed right away.  
  
True, Snape's hair was somewhat more. lank. than Hermione's, and so the effect didn't show up quite so noticeably. And yet, there were telltale sparks flickering among the dark strands. Harry flicked a questioning glance at Hermione.  
  
"I don't give hints," she said out of the side of her mouth.  
  
"I take it you collaborated on your ' experiment'," Harry said hotly.  
  
"I didn't think you'd understand. I know Ron wouldn't." Hermione looked up at the teacher's table and caught Snape's eye. Her brief smile wasn't acknowledged by more than a flicker of Snape's eyelids.  
  
Suddenly Harry found himself seething with anger. "I'm your new assistant," he said decidedly.  
  
Hermione turned to look at him, mouth hanging open. "What?"  
  
"Fascinating stuff. Glass. Light. Power." Harry nodded. "Yes. Need to find out all about it. Who knows? It could be the key to defeating Voldemort."  
  
"Well, yes, it *could* be, but I didn't want word of the experiments getting out until it looked as if we had a chance of succeeding."  
  
"I get it. Mum's the word." Harry plunked himself into his seat and refused to think about why the idea of Snape and Hermione working together.irritated.him.  
  
--||--  
  
Harry ignored Snape's frown as he trooped into the dungeon's on Hermione's heels. He smiled and chirped "good afternoon, Professor," as politely he knew how. Snape's grimace of annoyance turned into a snarl. And the snarl made Harry feel rather. odd. though he wasn't sure why. Or in what way. Harry's brief expression of befuddlement seemed to appease Snape somewhat; he merely straightened and turned his forbidding scowl on Hermione.  
  
"Miss Granger. What is the meaning of all this." Snape had more-or-less recovered from the poison gas attack, but he still had a gray-greenish tone to his skin. And he was thin. Thinner than before, and he really hadn't had much excess flesh to lose, Harry thought to himself.  
  
"Harry's figured it out and he wants to help."  
  
Harry shook himself and returned his attention to the conversation, attempting to look both hopeful and diffident. Snape's frown, meanwhile, grew deeper. "I have to deal with enough incompetence in the classroom, Granger. I had hoped to be free of it in my few precious off-hours."  
  
"I'll stay out of the way. Just think of me as your fetch-and-carry man," Harry said brightly. Snape turned to look at him, and then said with a slow smile. "Why Potter. I do believe that's an offer I can't refuse."  
  
And this time the smile, and the words, left Harry in no doubt of how he was feeling. He gulped and nodded.  
  
"Well, if you're determined to fetch and carry, I need a load of firewood brought in. You'll find it outside Hagrid's hut."  
  
Harry sighed, took his wand out, and turned to leave for Hagrid's.  
  
"You'll have to bring it over without using magic, of course," Snape said.  
  
Harry kept his face blank, but couldn't help glancing in Hermione's direction. "'Fraid so, Harry," she said. "We don't want any residual magic tainting the wood."  
  
Harry nodded, and Snape smirked. He was still picking splinters out of his hands two days later.  
  
And for the next few weeks, fetch and carry was what Harry did. He grew to know more than he thought there was to know about glass, and the magical properties of various wood, and the temperatures at which they burned. And he had traveled by flu to Diagon Alley so many times, seeking supplies, that he'd had to buy a new set of robes. His "old" ones, barely three months old, if that, had a distinctive smoky odor. He also frequently came back with treats, ostensibly for himself. He was, after all, a seventeen- year-old boy which meant, of course, he was supposed to be a bottomless pit.  
  
Snape sniffed and muttered and complained, but gradually Harry figured that Snape could be tempted to eat manchego and guava paste, and that, although he pretended to turn his nose up at hot and steaming fish-and-chips, he managed to eat at least his fair share.  
  
But even if Snape held firm on keeping Harry out of the experiments proper, his participation was appreciated-by Dumbledore at least. He approved of the apparent cease-fire between Snape and Harry and, as a result. Harry was more frequently invited to meet with the other members of the Order of the Phoenix.  
  
Although the first time that happened, Harry was completely surprised at his own reaction.  
  
--||--  
  
Harry sat down at the table, and looked up to meet Remus's eyes. Remus smiled welcomingly, and a distant part of Harry was aware that he was happy- very happy-to see Remus alive and looking so well. But the rest of him flinched. The dreams of being attacked by a werewolf were back, and suddenly more real than ever. He blushed and looked up again at Remus.  
  
"Er, sorry, Remus. Just wasn't expecting to see you.  
  
"Yes, well. Glad to see you. You've been officially admitted to the Council of War, eh?"  
  
"I suppose."  
  
And then Severus Snape swept into the room. To Harry's surprise, he nodded civilly to Remus, and even managed to maintain his equanimity when Sirius Black barged into the room.  
  
"Hello all!" He made a beeline for Harry's seat and grabbed Harry up and into a fierce hug. "Harry. I don't know that I agree with Dumbledore that you should be here but." he pushed Harry slightly away again and grinned madly into Harry's eyes, "I'm so damned glad to see you I can't argue the point. How are you?"  
  
"Uh, good. Yes, I'm doing well, and. and. and you?" he stuttered.  
  
It was bizarre. Two layers of feeling. One part of Harry relished a hug-the first in years-from the closest thing to family that Harry had. The other bristled with resentment and distrust, and a consciousness that no matter what he did now, he'd never be forgiven for then. Harry pushed his way out of Sirius's arms and shook his head.  
  
"I'm good Harry. Much better for seeing you. And now that you're here, we'll soon have old Voldie on the run, right?"  
  
"Right. Um, sure." And Harry looked around the room helplessly and caught Snape's eye. But instead of the expected sneer, Snape's gaze was measuring. But the moment was lost when Dumbledore bounced cheerfully into the room and called the meeting to order.  
  
--||--  
  
It had been another unsuccessful day in the laboratory. Two wands had shattered, and the others had been duds. They glowed-they were still glowing-and as a new light source they were a great success. But as a more powerful wand, they were a failure.  
  
Harry walked in the gardens, idly kicking at the tufts of grass. At least Snape and Hermione were letting him help, now. In fact, his hair was now sparking and waving. Hermione was so used the sensation that she could ignore it. Harry found himself uneasy inside. Touching anything-furniture, another person-led to mini-shocks and Harry found them unpleasant.  
  
As he rounded a hedge and made to turn back to the castle, he heard voices. Dumbledore. Dumbledore and Snape, to be precise.  
  
"Severus, my dear boy, it's too dangerous," Harry heard Dumbledore say.  
  
"A walk to Hogsmead for a drink with a friend... that's too dangerous?"  
  
"A drink with a friend? Is that all it is?"  
  
Snape drew himself up to his full height and thrust out his jaw defiantly. Harry, meanwhile, felt his stomach twist at the idea of Snape with. someone.  
  
"A liaison at this point would be... inadvisable," the headmaster continued gently. "We simply don't know who we can trust."  
  
"So I'm to sit in my dungeons until the war's end when for the first time in..." Snape broke off, evidently unwilling to say how long it had been.  
  
"Have --"  
  
"If you tell me to have patience," Snape spat, "I swear I'll..." Snape whirled away from Dumbledore and strode, robes swirling, back toward the dungeon.  
  
Harry stood quietly in the shadow of the hedge until Dumbledore headed back to the building as well. And then, thoughtfully, he made his way back to his rooms.  
  
  
  
Thanks again for sticking with me. 


	6. Chapter 6

A short update -- more to come, hopefully soon.  
  
Thanks to all who review!  
  
-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --  
  
Heart of Glass -- part 6  
  
Harry watched as Snape made notes in his tiny crabbed handwriting in a leather-bound notebook. It was small, and disappeared into thin air every time Snape let go of it, but reappeared at a graceful swish of Snape's left hand.  
  
Who, Harry thought, was Snape planning on meeting?   
  
Behind him, Hermione was also scritch-scritching on a scroll that had trebled in length since Harry had begun working with them, and it had been nearly as tall as Hermione herself at that point.  
  
"Potter, can't you find something to occupy yourself?"  
  
Harry flushed. "Sir. Um, I could gather more ingredients for the fire?"  
  
Snape put down his quill and pressed long fingers to his brow. "That would be helpful. You've had a few adventures in the Forbidden Forest already, haven't you."  
  
"Well, yes sir. I have. Sir. Um."  
  
Snape turned toward him, one eyebrow raised high. Harry gulped. But Snape turned away, obviously not thinking Harry was worth expending more words on.  
  
"Granger," Snape said instead. "We need to collect material for the fire. Can you begin assembling the ingredients for the glass. Version Delta 3."  
  
Hermione looked up from her scroll, her brow still furrowed in concentration. "Mmm. But I still think we should include the modifications from Version Alpha 7."  
  
"Today I'm choosing madness over method, Granger. Grant that my many years as a potions master have imbued me with some measure of intuition?"  
  
Harry could hear Hermione grumbling about proceeding in an orderly fashion as they exited the dungeon and made their way out into the chill of a November afternoon.  
  
-- -- -- -- -- -  
  
Harry kept slipping sidelong glances at the tall figure striding beside him.  
  
"If I asked which way back to Hogwarts, could you tell me?" Snape asked suddenly.  
  
"I... That way," Harry gestured toward the south.  
  
Snape gave him a long level look. "Lucky guess." He sniffed. "You, more than most, know the dangers in these woods. Enough woolgathering, Potter. Keep your mind on the task-at-hand."  
  
"I wasn't...!" Harry sputtered indignantly. Except he had been. He sighed. "Yes, sir."  
  
Snape looked sharply at Harry. "No arguments? It's said that wonders never cease -- this would seem to be proof."  
  
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but shut it again. Snape, he thought, hadn't really been getting any nicer. It was obviously just a product of his fevered imagination. And his nightmares had simply been caused by...  
  
Snape's steps faltered for a moment, and Harry looked up to see where they were. It was a small clearing, innocuous enough except for the scarred appearance of the trunk of a large oak tree. Snape's stride picked up, and he skirted the clearing's edges. Harry followed suit, carefully avoiding looking at the oak tree. Well, he knew what he'd be dreaming about tonight.  
  
His eyes, inevitably, returned to Snape's face. It was pale, as always, but there was a yellow tinge underneath it. The things Snape had seen, Harry thought. That he'd done. That...  
  
Harry shuddered again.  
  
"Honestly, Potter, it's a wonder you find your way out of bed in the morning. Haven't you learned how to dress for the weather?"  
  
Harry just shook his head. The vision of the woman tied to the tree while the Death Eaters surrounded her. He could hear her screams...  
  
-- -- -- -- -- -  
  
Hermione looked up from Snape's long workbench. The ingredients were neatly, meticulously laid out before her. Snape brandished the tulse root. "It didn't take as long as I thought," he said. "Potter proved invaluable. He literally tripped over it."  
  
"Good job, Harry," Hermione said sincerely. "I think we're ready."  
  
It was a long three hours of adding ingredients, and boiling, and stirring. The heat from the magical flame burned fiercely, driving out the ever-present chill of Snape's dungeons. But the flame blazed fiercest of all when Snape tossed the tulse root into the fire. There was a near-explosion of heat, and then Snape and Hermione were moving smoothly in concert to pour the glass mixture into the molds.   
  
Harry watched as the still-molten material began to fade from glowing .  
  
"It will take hours for it to cool. Best leave it overnight. We'll meet tomorrow evening and... see what we shall see." Snape gazed ferociously at the moulds, as if daring them to crack, as the last batch had. The determination in his eyes, in his stance, suddenly made Harry's heart ache.  
  
-- -- -- -- -- -  
  
Harry sat in his bed, clutching the crystal. Their experiment would work. If not tomorrow, then there would always be the time after that. And Snape would get credit -- an Order of Merlin -- as thanks for creating the instrument of Voldemort's downfall. And with Voldemort's death, Harry thought, the last of the crystal would melt away and Snape would be free to...  
  
Meet his unknown admirer at Hogsmead and use those long hands to stroke his lover's body and... that body was Harry's, it was Harry's body and Snape's voice was whispering lushly in his hear and...   
  
Harry sat up suddenly from his fantasy at the sound of Neville grunting in his sleep. Slowly, he made his hand release his penis, uncomfortably conscious that he'd pressed the crystal between his palm and the still-erect organ.  
  
Bringing the crystal up to his cheek, he stroked it softly. "Sorry," he whispered, ignoring how idiotic and humiliating it all felt. "Sorry. I'll never use you that way."  
  
-- -- -- -- -- -  
  
A/N: I'm very curious to know what you think the crystal is, and where you came from. I know what I have planned, but I'm not sure I'm getting it across to you all, the readers. 


	7. Chapter 7

Grinding away at the plot. Slash eventually  
  
-----------------  
  
Heart of Glass -- part 7  
  
The glass was carefully lifted out of its mould and Snape, Hermione, and Harry, with equal care, lifted them and gently, very gently, slid their wands into the groove intended for that purpose.  
  
They'd already achieved a major success. Too many times in the past, there'd simply been a mini-explosion once the wand-boosters had been handled. At that point, Harry, Hermione, and Snape would retreat to share a pot of mango-mint tea, which seemed to have a calming effect on the resultant hair-sparking effect.  
  
But this time, no explosion.  
  
Who goes first? Harry asked rhetorically. Both Snape and Harry turned to gaze at Hermione, who gulped. Her magic was weaker than Snape's and more predictable than Harry's.   
  
Something simple, Snape cautioned. As he always did.  
  
Hermione gulped again and pointed her wand at the logs sitting before Snape's fireplace. Wingardium leviosa! she commanded firmly, then shut her eyes and went into a full-body flinch. Harry braced himself as well. This was the second point at which things usually failed. It was usually a cascading effect as Hermione's glass shattered, causing Snape's and Harry's to shatter as well. But this time  
  
It's working, Snape whispered. Harry just stood and stared.  
  
The logs were floating. The andirons were floating. The fire burning in the fireplace was floating. As was just about everything in the room that wasn't actually affixed to a floor or a wall -- but the objects were trying. Harry could hear the castle groan in protest.  
  
Snape warned softly.   
  
Hermione cautiously opened one eye, then the other. Finite incantatum, she said, her voice barely audible.  
  
Everything drifted down to the floor, a multitude of taps and bumps and clicks arising as the workbench, the andirons, Snape's armchair, and everything else settled back into place.  
  
Sir, I believe you're up next, Harry said, striving for equanimity.  
  
Hermione just walked to the armchair and sank into its depths.  
  
Harry swallowed and looked away from Snape who still stood staring in disbelief. The man was oh, the look in his eyes. Triumph. Vindication. Hope?  
  
I think, Snape started, then paused. I think we wait. Let the ambient magic settle a bit. Have some, er, tea He paused again and took a deep breath. Then I'll go. Then you, Harry.  
  
Harry flushed with pleasure. Not that he was chosen to go last, a subtle compliment to the strength of his magic -- Snape had never called him by his first name.  
  
Certainly. Um, sir.  
  
Snape gave him a quick glance, as if checking to see whether Harry was mocking him. But Harry just smiled and dragged a nervous hand through his hair.  
  
----------  
  
Hermione sat composedly at the table, her triumph at being invited to an Order of the Phoenix meeting well-hidden, except for those who knew her. Harry caught Snape's eye and realized they were both hiding smiles. Except Snape was the first to drop eye contact and look away.  
  
And then Sirius entered the room. He chose a seat, and sprawled lazily in it. "And how are we all today?"  
  
After casting a quick anxious glance at Snape, Harry concentrated on quelling the odd mix of feelings that arose within him every time he now saw his godfather. Love, yes, and joy at his safety, but also a rush of irritation at the seemingly careless attitude he perpetually displayed.  
  
But that wasn't true, Harry reminded himself, even as he reminded himself to smile at his godfather. At least, it wasn't true now. Meanwhile, Snape was handling himself increasingly well on the rare occasions when he and Sirius crossed paths. It was amusing, really.  
  
Yes, there was sniping and snarking and occasionally hissing -- the tempers of both parties were never far from the surface. But where Snape had formerly flared up at even the sight of Sirius, he now seemed to take more pleasure in baiting him. And to see Sirius frustrated, like a dog who doesn't understand why a cat won't run -- won't even bother to spit and arch its back, but just stares calmly and waits, until, suddenly slashing, it left the dog's nose with a battle scar of four perfectly parallel claw marks.  
  
Sirius had learned, finally, not to even attempt baiting Severus anymore. And, perhaps, that was the most effective revenge. Now a truce reigned, but today, Harry could tell, Severus was waiting. Waiting for Dumbledore to share the news of Snape's triumph so that he could rub Sirius's nose in it.  
  
As if on cue, Dumbledore entered.  
  
This meeting will be short. Basically, we have an advantage, one that may last only as long as we are able to keep it secret. What I need from all of you is an idea of where to find Voldemort, and how we can attack.  
  
A low murmur arose. Dumbledore was forever disinclined to go on the offensive. The gains, he often declared, were not worth the potential costs. What he'd seen, when Snape had summoned him to see what Harry could do with the glass wand-booster, must have convinced him.  
  
It was only unfortunate that Snape's rug wasn't large enough to cover the resultant hole in the dungeon floor.  
  
Harry sat back and waited until the murmuring died down.  
  
Well, I have good news on that front, Sirius said into the general silence. We were able to track Voldemort to caves in Wales. But the caves are deep. And magical  
  
Draw him out, then? Harry put forth. I seem to be irresistible bait, as you all know.  
  
Use you as a stalking goat, Harry? Sirius said angrily.   
  
The boy does have a point, Snape said.   
  
You would agree with him, Sirius replied angrily.  
  
Whatever Potter's faults, he does have an amazing grasp of the obvious. The question is, how to arrange for a trap wherein the bait doesn't  
  
Get eaten alive? Harry put in with a half smile.  
  
As you say. Snape nodded in Harry's direction.  
  
Hermione said unexpectedly.  
  
Snape raised an eyebrow.   
  
Voldemort seems to like attacking Quidditch matches. He's attacked at the World Cup twice, now. Can't we arrange for a Quidditch exhibition or something?  
  
What would be the occasion? Dumbledore inquired.  
  
Oh, the Boy-Who-Lived is graduation. Who wouldn't want to see his tryout for the professional league? With the funds to go to charity, of course.  
  
Harry sat back with a groan, then and turned to glare at his so-called best friend.  
  
--||--  
  
The idea of an exhibition quickly proved impossible. Too many people would have to know, would be in on the secret. Too many people would be present. Too many people could be hurt.  
  
In the end, it proved unnecessary. Snape, Hermione, and Harry simply created more wand boosters and handed them out to the inner circle.   
  
Sirius was the first to bag a prize -- a wailing Wormtail was dragged before the Ministry of Magic, and, finally, Sirius was exonerated. A taste of victory only whetted Sirius's appetite for more, so he redoubled his efforts to find Voldemort.  
  
Voldemort, at first, was only mildly unnerved at losing the services of his pet rat. But, with the Ministry's stepped-up surveillance (Fudge had no choice but to obey the will of a near-hysterical public who believed Pettigrew when he said that the Dark Lord was bigger and badder than ever), and Sirius's dogged persistence, Voldemort's boltholes were discovered. And as Voldemort was driven from pillar to post, panic began to rise among the Death Eaters. Their activities had denied for so long by the public that when the wizarding world suddenly paid attention to the problem at hand, the Death Eaters' nerves apparently broke. After a few Death Eaters were picked off, in their initial attempts to cow the populace, the rest of the rats began to flee the slowly sinking ship.  
  
By the time Lucius Malfoy appeared voluntarily before the Ministry (again claiming Imperius as his reason for supporting Voldemort), the end was near. Voldemort attempted to flee to France, to regroup, but Arthur Weasley and a party of his trusted employees had been forewarned ahead of time. Voldemort apparated back to his caves in Wales, but Sirius was there, with Lupin and a few other werewolves. And so Voldemort apparated away one last time, and no one was quite sure where.  
  
It became apparent the next day, when a black-cloaked figure emerged from the Forbidden Forest and attempted to casually glide over to the Quidditch pitch where Harry was practicing with the rest of the Quidditch team for their match against Ravenclaw. He wouldn't have even gotten as close as he had, had he not cast a glamour over himself. But at this point, Harry was an expert in all things Snape. The way the figure walked, held his body, turned his head -- it was the old, tired, hated and hateful Snape that walked idly Harry's way. Besides, Harry knew that Severus taught second year potions (Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw) at that hour. So his wand was at the ready even before Voldemort could raise his arm in Harry's direction.  
  
When Voldemort did make his move, Harry's Avadra Kedavra was so powerful that the resultant hole took two weeks to fill in, and delayed the House Quidditch Cup Finals until after the end of term. Voldemort's smoking remains were barely discernible from the blackened earth around where he had once stood.  
  
--||--  
  
The wizarding world erupted with joy and Harry was twice the celebrity he'd ever been. As a result, he was rarely without his invisibility cloak. He could get away with wearing it during history of magic, but he more or less refused to emerge from underneath it except during class, at meals, and when playing Quidditch. The occupants of Griffindor House where rarely sure whether he was in it or not, except at night. And sometimes not even then. Padma and Lavender briefly started a campaign to have the cloak confiscated -- they were convinced he was using it to spy on them when they were in the bathroom -- but whatever Hermione threatened worked. According to Ron, they also began bathing wearing bathing suits. Harry didn't inquire how Ron came across this information.  
  
The worst part, so far as Harry was concerned, was really not the publicity, as bad as that was. It wasn't even that all the wand boosters were confiscated, and destroyed. It was that, apart from the few people in the Order that had been granted one to begin with, no one knew they had ever existed.  
  
Dumbledore had insisted, and Snape had agreed, that they were simply too dangerous. Too tempting. The knowledge had been found, but it needed to be lost again. If the boosters were to get into the wrong hands Dumbledore had intoned gravely.  
  
And so the rumors of Harry's magical prowess were more exaggerated than ever. And Hermoine, and Snape, didn't get an iota of credit for their contributions to bringing about Voldemort's downfall. With that knowledge, Harry found it hard to look Snape in the eye. Instead he concentrated on the crystal, hoping that the care he lavished on it might be somehow transmitted to the man it was made to torture.  
  
--||--  
  
The glass, however, seemed to have shrunk all it was going to. Whichever of Snape's horrific memories and dark thoughts that Voldemort had trapped inside the crystal remained there. It continued to stay a dark, sullen thing. It was small enough now that it could be easily slipped into a pocket, and Harry used it as a worry stone, continually turning it over and over in his fingers.  
  
Snape, despite any disappointment he might have felt over his achievements going unrecognized, and seeing almost every member of the Order of the Phoenix awarded an Order of Merlin -- except for himself -- bore up well under the distrust of those who didn't know of his sacrifices.  
  
And so the last weeks of Harry's last year at Hogwarts drew to a close.   
  
--||--  
  
Auror training was a bore, until Harry found a specialty. Dark objects and books of dark magic had to be examined and catalogued and safely stored. Harry made himself into the resident expert on glass.  
  
And as the ministry searched all of Voldemort's old hiding places, strange, twisted glass objects were revealed. There were crystal balls enchanted to reveal only nightmare visions, crystal cubes containing people's minds, or souls, and occasionally, bodies, and dark pensieves, designed to contain the darkest hours of a person's life and feed them back as dreams, over and over, driving bitterness into their souls.  
  
Harry was the one to discover a cache of them, and among them, Draco's. It was disturbing to find himself featured so prominently in it. The day Harry refused Draco's hand in friendship, the humiliation Draco felt at being turned into the amazing bouncing ferret.   
  
The crystal balls were the easiest to dispose of, though sometimes hard to identify. A student of Flitwick's had finally come up with a charm that identified any crystal ball that was designed to deliberately twist the future and present the worst possible outcome. Harry had snuck back to Hogwarts to use the charm on Trelawney's crystal ball, but her crystal ball. It was the woman herself who was barking mad.  
  
Dumbledore had taken over rescuing what -- and who -- he could from the crystal cubes. Occasionally people who had been trapped inside were still alive. Rarely were they sane.  
  
One bright spot had been the discovery that fragments of Frank and TK Longbottom's minds were found intact in one of the cubes. Their recovery, while swift, would never be quite complete, but Neville had parents capable of recognizing, and loving, their only child.  
  
The worst were the dark pensieves. Destroying them only led to the destruction of the person whose nightmares it held. Charms released the contents too suddenly for the victim to cope. Harry, inadvertently, held the only solution, but was at a loss as to explain how he'd arrived at it. The core of the Snape-crystal still lay in his pocket.  
  
But he'd had to tell someone, so he'd told Hermione. And Hermione took charge of finding a person who had enough affection for the victim both to help release what was trapped in the crystal's depths, and to bear the nightmares that resulted.   
  
Hermione herself had taken initially taken charge of Draco's, but quickly realized that Draco would never forgive her for what would seem to be typical Griffindor behavior of prying into the private details of her betters.  
  
And so she'd passed the crystal along to Snape and asked him to find someone to be its caretaker. Snape, of course, with Draco's agreement, had taken charge of the crystal himself. Harry then threw himself even deeper into his work, convinced he knew what the outcome of the situation would be. He was relieved and surprised when Draco turned up to thank Harry and Hermione both for taking care of it, and for putting it in the right hands. He was even more surprised to see Hermione blush and invite Draco for a drink, and to watch as Draco, with an assessing glance divided evenly between Harry and Hermione, agreed.  
  
And so time passed. And more time. And Harry kept his head down, and worked hard at his obscure specialty that excited no one's attention and brought him no further glory.  
  
His only indulgence was to pass along every experiment any wizard ever conducted with regard to the magical properties of glass along to Severus Snape. The brief thank you notes, each with just a few words of Snape's crabbed handwriting scrawled across it, sat in a neat pile in the second drawer of Harry's desk.  
  
--------------  
  
Sorry, not the most uplifting ending. I'm *trying*, though.  
  
As for all you reviewers, see the Authors Notes, which follow this installment.  
  
Thanks again!  



	8. Chapter 8

The third chapter this week! There's probably only going to be one chapter after this one. My problem now is how to pull an R-rated (ff.net-acceptable) version out of what I have written that doesn't end with something lame like fade to black or they all lived happily ever after.  
  
Meamwhile, the final, betaed, revised and expanded version of this story, containing the NC-17 bits, won't be available for a while. Sorry. This is only in part due to ff.net's rules regarding NC17 material; it's more because it's going to take me a while to achieve a version of the whole story that I really like. Which means -- if you have hopes and dreams for this story, or you think I've gone off track at some point, or you want to point out errors and omissions, now's the time to let me know.   
  
Thanks again for reading!  
  
-------------  
  
Heart of Glass -- part 8  
  
_Three years later  
  
_Harry Potter had been reborn -- as the Clark Kent of the wizarding world. He had it all: the glasses, the bad haircut, the clumsiness, and the deep flush whenever anyone paid him anything remotely resembling a compliment.  
  
Rita Skeeter and her ilk had quickly become bored with him. He wasn't the brave, valiant, tragic figure anymore. He was some just an odd young man who babbled about the strange effects of Muggle stained-glass windows and their relationship to the rise of the Christian church.  
  
Frankly, he bored people. And so their attention turned back to charlatans such as Leslie Darlington, the new wizard heartthrob and all around can-do guy who could charm the kneazles from the trees and the krups from their underground burrows.  
  
Or Oliver Wood, who won the hearts of the British wizarding world when he led the team to a world cup championship. No, Harry was someone whose time had passed. His star, so people said, had fallen with Voldemort's. Even Hermione was looked up to as very modern model of all that a young witch could be. She had a successful career, and had reformed one of the wizarding world's worst rakes. With time and distance, Draco Malfoy's family's relationship with You Know Who made Draco seem all the more sexy. Meanwhile Draco frankly enjoyed the infrequent occasions that Hermione lost her temper over the antics of his newfound fans.  
  
From Harry's point-of-view, there was still the problem of the occasional earnest young wizard or witch who thought they saw in Harry a kindred spirit. A few, a very few, of these people became his friends, but none touched his heart. And Harry continued to keep the Snape-crystal close by, and kept abreast of the gossip which first linked Snape with a potions mistress from Monaco, and then with an intrepid American wizard biologist whose explorations in the Amazon rain forest had yielded plants guaranteed to make anyone interested in potions salivate.  
  
It wasn't until gossip linked Snape's name to a glassmaker from Austria that Harry was galvanized into action.  
  
--||--  
  
Ministry parties were a crashing bore, and Harry had successfully avoided most of them. Such was his new reputation that more recently, when he had been forced to attend, most people avoided *him*.  
  
A quick glance around the room found Snape standing in a corner, talking quietly to a good-looking man who seemed to be gazing intently up into Snape's eyes. Only, good-looking wasn't quite an accurate term. The man was gorgeous.  
  
Harry bit his lip. Snape deserved happiness, and Albrecht Bleibaum of Krizzle Krystall, GmbH, on the surface at least, seemed to want to deliver that. At least according to the intelligence provided via Hermione, courtesy of Draco. But Harry had taken steps to protect Snape -- and his knowledge, of course -- and the signs were ominous. Harry edged across the room until he stood a polite distance away and waited diffidently for the two men to acknowledge him.   
  
And waited. Finally, he stepped forward.  
  
Professor. Hello, sir. Harry smiled at the man he hadn't come face-to-face with in three years, then turned an expectantly hopeful gaze to Snape's companion.  
  
Ah. Yes, Potter, Snape said. You've been keeping well, I see.  
  
Snape's assessing glance took in Harry's well-worn robes and shaggy hair, and the flush that rose to Harry's face wasn't the result of the _rubescere_ charm he could call into action at will. Harry decided he wouldn't use the stammer charm on himself tonight. There was only so far he was willing to humiliate himself in front of Snape.  
  
Mr. Potter, Snape continued. May I present Albrecht Bleibaum. Albrecht Bleibaum, this is our famous Harry Potter.  
  
Harry didn't bother to suppress a flinch at the word   
  
Ah, the glaeslornian, yes. How nice to meet you. The greeting was cordial, but disinterested.   
  
Yes, he was the glaeslornian -- glass-studier. A man who owned Austria's premier glassworks shouldn't be quite so dismissive, Harry thought darkly.  
  
Did you come hoping to meet Albrecht? Snape asked. It can scarcely be my presence here that drew you.  
  
Actually, required attendance for all directors. Even if my department only contains a staff of one. Harry smiled awkwardly. I'm rarely in the field nowadays -- Arthur wants me to make nice with all the muckety-mucks. Which I'd rather not do, not really my cup of tea. Not that it isn't nice to see you Professor Snape. And you, too, Herr Bleibaum. What you do with glass, amazing. Fascinating really. Harry increased the pace of his speech, as if hoping that he hadn't given offense. My specialty, too, by the way. Glass.  
  
Yes. But a subset of the art -- glass in combination with the Dark Arts. Really, I have no taste for such things. Bleibaum's mouth pursed. But fascinating in its own right, I'm sure.  
  
Oh, certainly. Fascinating. But often horrible. Er, always horrible. But, yes, well, maybe fascinating isn't *quite* the word. I, er  
  
A waiter passed by, his tray loaded with flutes of sparkling lambic and Harry grabbed a glass and drank as if desperate.  
  
Bleibaum regarded him kindly, and Snape with a peculiar twist to his lips.  
  
Mr. Potter. Surely you haven't come to lecture Herr Bleibaum on glass, have you? There was a light in Snape's eye that Harry didn't quite understand, but Harry mugged his way through a typical response.  
  
Lecture? Ah, no. Interesting exhibit of Austrian crystal, though, that you're mounting at the Tait Gallery. Um. If you like that sort of thing. Which obviously you do. As do I.   
  
Yes, of course. As the exhibits sponsor, and considering my own profession, it is to be hoped that the subject is of interest to me, Bleibaum smirked again, and adjusted the collar of his robe. A peacock, Harry thought with dislike. I'll be giving Professor Snape a tour on Saturday. He, too, is interested in glass.  
  
Well, that's a good piece of luck, Harry said brightly. I, er, well, I'd love to hear your insights. Shared knowledge and all that  
  
Bleibaum raised one dark eyebrow. Not quite as quelling as Snape's, but effective, Harry thought.  
  
Certainly, certainly, Bleibaum said But your Mr. Weasley has arranged for me to give a tour to all interested ministry employees. On Sunday, I believe.  
  
Yes. Of course. So kind of you to take the time.  
  
Not at all Mr. Potter. It is, as they say, part of the job.  
  
Harry flushed again. He hadn't flushed this many times in a fifteen minute period since fourth-year potions. He opened his mouth and shut it, hoping that Snape would say something that would give Harry an excuse to remain in their company, but Snape remained silent and Harry, in the face of growing awkwardness, flushed even more deeply, and retreated.  
  
--||--  
  
Damn, Harry thought. Damn and damn and damn and damn. He strode through the gardens outside the ballroom and swore internally. Cultivate the demeanor of a fool long enough, and, apparently, you become one. But why in front of Snape   
  
He'd fantasized about a casual encounter with the man for years, now. Had come close to asking Hermione to set one up. But this, this was a fucking disaster.  
  
Damn.  
  
So, Potter. Enjoying the evening breeze, are you?  
  
Harry stopped mid-stride, then turned to face Snape. Something of the sort. Or actually, no.  
  
You did kind of overplay your part in there. Snape looked Harry up and down calmly and Harry, for the second time that evening, was acutely aware of his appearance. No, his new persona didn't exactly stand him in good stead in the wow Snape with sex appeal category. He shrugged the thought away. There were more important matters at hand.  
  
Second nature, now. Harry sighed.  
  
Snape paused. So, all this is in aid of checking up on me? Making sure I don't reveal any secrets?  
  
No! No, of course not. Harry took two quick steps toward Snape, and stood before the man. Really, not checking up on you at all. Bleibaum, however, I have my doubts about. I And Harry shut himself up. The urge to babble was a real, now, and he'd made an idiot of himself enough for one evening.  
  
Snape said again. He stood, arms crossed, as remote as the stars.  
  
It wasn't fair, you know. There should have been some way of acknowledging everything you've done. The last thing I want to suggest is that you, of all people, don't know when to keep your mouth shut.  
  
Snape was silent for a moment. Well, life is rarely fair, Mr. Potter. I should think you had learned that lesson years ago.  
  
Harry grimaced.   
  
But, after all, what is the gratitude of Britain's wizarding community when werewolves everywhere howl my name to the moon in gratitude.  
  
I'm sure they do. And I'm sure it drives Sirius insane when Remus does so. Harry found himself grinning up at Snape, and Snape smiled briefly back.  
  
So, you are suspicious of Bleibaum, are you? Care to share the details as to why?  
  
Certainly, Professor. But not here, and not now? Wouldn't want to draw Bleibaum's attention, would we?  
  
I thought directors such as yourself left the cloak-and-dagger matters to the underlings, Potter.  
  
Considering I'm a department of one, there's no one else I can direct to do it. But even if I had a staff of ten, I'd still keep my hand in. Wouldn't want to let the young things have all the fun. And Harry let himself grin at Snape and was gratified when the man's expression softened in return.  
  
--||--  
  
Harry paced nervously in his apartment, waiting for Snape to floo in. He'd gone through a frenzy of dusting and cleaning, and had purchased the first matching cups and saucers and glasses that he'd ever owned. He could provide tea, he could provide Ogden's Firewhiskey, and he had a very nice bottle of cognac. Now all he had to do was wait.  
  
He checked the clock again. It still read not quite time. With a sigh he sat down on the couch, and reflexively squared up his magazines so that the latest issue of *Potions Quarterly* showed beneath his pile of *Quidditch Monthlies.* And then he shoved the *Potions Quarterly* back under the pile.  
  
There was a warning hiss and with a pop, Snape appeared, and stepped gracefully out of Harry's fireplace. Glancing around the room, he said, Nice place you have here, Potter.  
  
Thanks. I, er Won't you sit down?  
  
Snape chose the well-stuffed armchair that Draco usually sprawled in on the rare occasions he and Hermione came by.  
  
  
  
Thank you, but no. I'm more curious to hear what you think Bleibaum is up to.  
  
Harry sat back on the couch and began his story, carefully omitting certain facts.  
  
And Snape listened, calmly, to the case Harry laid out before him. Harry only hoped that the gaps he elided over weren't too obvious. He had another source, one he might not ever be willing to reveal. Reflexively he reached in his pocket to touch the Snape-crystal. Finally he came to the end of his summation, and Snape regarded him silently for a few moments. Finally, he spoke.  
  
It's tenuous at best, Potter, and you know it.  
  
It fits together all too well, Harry said quietly.  
  
Snape frowned.  
  
I'm sorry. I realize that you and he He's smart, he's moving slowly. Gaining your confidence.  
  
Snape's mouth drew together in a grim line. He shook his head once, sharply, and stood.  
  
Harry said. There's no need to go yet.  
  
I need to return to my rooms at Hogwarts. Make sure the wards are in place.  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Potter. And I will, of course, think about what you've said.  
  
Harry smiled wryly. One favor. I'm already keyed to the Hogwarts flu network, but if you would Key me to the fireplace in your room?  
  
  
I've keyed my fireplace to you. So, if at any time Harry let his voice trail off.  
Well. Thank you again. Snape bowed slightly in Harry's direction, strode to the fireplace, and disappeared.  
  
--||--  
  
Harry walked to the armchair and sat. The cushions had absorbed Snape's heat and for a moment Harry let himself pretend that Snape's arms enfolded him. Then he sighed, reached into his pocket, and took out the crystal.  
  
As England's only acknowledged glaeslornian, he'd learned a great deal about glass, and all the dark charms and enchantments that could be cast upon them. He'd taken care to learn benevolent spells, too. And he'd been unable to resist the temptation to cast a spell of protection on the Snape-crystal.  
  
That was how, initially, he'd known that Jacqueline Mouchard, the French potion's mistress Snape had briefly been involved with, was not all that she could be. But Snape had figured that out quickly enough on his own -- apparently the woman had a reputation for appropriating others' work presenting it as her own.  
  
To Harry's chagrin, the wizard-of-the-rain-forest was all that he appeared to be -- a gung-ho, healthy outdoor type with a passion for potions. And potion masters, apparently. But the call of the wild apparently rang louder in Daniel Johnstone's ears than the call of Snape's dungeons, so after six months he went to explore the Congo and Snape hadn't heard from him since.  
  
But Bleibaum -- he'd been more subtle. Snape hadn't been joking about the acclaim he'd received for his wolfsbane potion. With further refinements, he'd discovered a variant that could be bottled, and it was now available as an over-the-counter remedy. Lupin's heroic efforts in Voldemort's defeat had reduced at least some of the stigma associated with being a werewolf, and while it was still a product one asked for in whispers, werewolves would probably be generally welcomed into wizarding society within the next decade.   
  
The only problem had been the volatile nature of the solution and the solution to the problem was found in the glass containers in which it was stored. Snape had played a part in the development of that, as well. In doing so, however, he had revealed just how familiar he was with the properties of glass. Which would probably not have made a difference unless someone had made a connection that no one else had made -- the connection between Harry's interest in glass artifacts, and Harry's connection with Snape, and Snape's own knowledge of glass.  
  
The connection had been made when Krizzle Krystall had bid to produce the glass bottles. The bid had been entertained because the company had an excellent reputation, and Bleibaum showed an understanding of the challenge that wolfsbane potion's instability presented.  
  
Snape and Bleibaum had begun corresponding more than a year ago, while Daniel Johnstone was in the picture. Bleibaum had moved slowly -- it was only within the past few months that the Snape-crystal showed any sign that someone had ill intentions toward Snape.   
  
Fortunately, Harry could pump Draco for information. Gradually, he'd narrowed the candidates down, initially concentrating on Johnstone. But Johnstone had left, and when Snape had accepted Bleibaum's invitation to hold a seminar in Austria, the presentiment of danger grew stronger.  
  
Harry took a closer look at his own files, and then began to analyze the chemical makeup of the various dark objects in his custody. The discovery was alarming: the majority of the objects shared a chemical compound only found in glass produced in Argentina -- and their glassmaking industry, while of high quality, didn't have a high output -- and Austria.   
  
Harry had searched for Austrian works on the properties of glass, and had Hermione cast an enchantment on him so that he could read German. Then another discovery: Austrian wizards knew quite a bit -- more than English wizards ever did -- about using glass for dark purposes.   
  
It wasn't much to go on, but Harry just knew.  
  
--------  
  
Yes, a cliffhanger, and still no kissy-kissy, smoochy-smoochy. What can I say? This plot is determined to make the boys wait for their fun.  
  
Love to hear your thoughts...  



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